


Shoe (Singular, not Plural)

by Emerald147



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Angst, Character Study, Five also has emotions, Gen, Graphic Description, Graphic Description of Corpses, Heavy Angst, No Dialogue, No Plot/Plotless, Not Beta Read, Not Happy, Number Five | The Boy Has Issues, Number Five | The Boy-centric, POV Number Five | The Boy (Umbrella Academy), Pre-Canon, Sorry Not Sorry, Sort Of, Time Travel, War, it's just angst, that he can't deal with, very little plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-04-24 17:31:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19178059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emerald147/pseuds/Emerald147
Summary: He looked up slightly, distracting himself from the morbid innocence with the grittier, harsher destruction. Now that? The evils of bombs and guns? That he knew how to deal with, that he could compartmentalise properly. This? He didn't even know.----Sometimes Five liked his 'job', sometimes he didn't. This is one of those times





	Shoe (Singular, not Plural)

There was a shoe in the middle of the road.

Just one, a child’s shoe; a once white trainer. It made him stop. Not much could make him stop, one can only see so much before they learn how to push through the horrors with nary a second glance. Perhaps it was because it was all alone, missing its pair. Now that was a feeling he knew well, a feeling they all knew well (but always suppressed). He shook his head; it was just a shoe – he had seen far worse. But he didn’t look away. It was all alone, it looked... sad. It was on its side, tuned away from him so he could see the dirtied, but new-ish bottom. It was white once. But now it is covered in ash and dust and he didn’t want the dark stain on the heel to be blood but he didn’t try to fool himself.

He looked up slightly, distracting himself from the morbid innocence with the grittier, harsher destruction. Now that? The evils of bombs and guns? That he knew how to deal with, that he could compartmentalise properly. This? He didn't even know.

The rest of the road is covered in rubble and debris. Piles of bricks and scorched wood are scattered about like forgotten toys, waiting to be cleaned up. He tried to shake the thought from his mind. These weren’t toys, this wasn’t a game; if it was it was a madman's game for sure. Even though the white was hidden by some ashy remains of the likely once busy street, it still leapt out to him, his eyes constantly tugging his attention back to it. One of the laces was hanging over it, the end burnt away. He wondered again, as to the whereabouts of the other shoe, if the child they both belonged to was missing both. Though, he doubted someone would go on with one shoe alone. As his mind continued to fall around his thoughts, he contemplated the uselessness of an individual shoe. Sure, it might offer protection but it would make walking awkward, running even more so. Would someone pick it up? Treasure it as something that was lucky enough to survive? Or would they do as he is doing now, simply stare? After losing one would it be better to also abandon the other? Or would a child hold tight to the remaining shoe, the way children attach themselves to things with no real value? Maybe it does – did – have value, maybe they were a gift from a relative-now-made-casualty – there were certainly enough around.

A beam of wood fell up ahead (distantly, he wondered if it would make a sound if he were not there; not a sound one would hear, but a sound like the way the shoe seeming to be both screaming and singing nursery rhymes to him – as the beam of wood sung of fire and fury, battle and brimstone) and his head dragged his eyes away from the shoe to stare at it. He peered closer. Squinted his eyes. There was a hand underneath the rubble and the fresh cloud of dust. An old hand, with wrinkles and a ring, just barely glinting in the light of the sun. He wondered if whoever it was knew the owner of the shoe. He seemed to be doing a lot of wondering, for someone who was only there to clear the area. But it was quiet, so he didn’t worry. Foolish of him, perhaps, but he had not settled into silence for far too long.

He looked back at the shoe again.

It was a bad idea. He didn’t know how it was lost, he didn’t know what happened to the child (and he didn’t want to contemplate it – he may be an insensitive asshole, but he never took joy in the suffering of children) (he pushed his own memories of being a child in a place like this away). It was a bad idea, but he found himself walking towards it. The air didn’t smell any different to usual, however considering the ‘usual’ was a delightful mixture of burning or rotting flesh, dust, and the metallic-but-obviously-not-metal smell of blood, that fact didn’t fill him with confidence. He picked it up slowly, the texture rough but almost impossible to feel though the thick leather of his gloves.

He dropped it almost immediately.

It bounced once, landing on its side again. A small trickle of blood, and something yellow he didn’t want to name sluggishly stained the concrete. The smell hit him. It wasn’t anything he hadn’t smelt before, but this time it made him gag. Small tears gathered like tiny rose-buds in the corners of his eyes, and they fell at the thought of comparing his reaction and what he saw with something a pure as roses.

There was nothing good about this.

There was no innocence, just innocence’s corpse, curled up into the shape of a child’s foot and left to rot inside a once-white shoe (the irony of that didn’t escape him). The jagged wound had festered, and likely only stopped bleeding because there was no blood left – the side that was once face-down was soaked in it, and he was quick to wipe away what remained on his gloves.

He was no stranger to this. He had inflicted wounds similar for reasons so trivial he could barely remember them. He knew intimately the exact texture of flesh beneath his fingers, exactly how hard to swing with and weapon to cut through bone, and how to remove the blood without causing a mess. He doubted whatever caused this knew anything, that or they must have been emotionally compromised. He didn’t want to keeping looking, but his eyes couldn’t seem to stop themselves. The flesh was torn, but not randomly, though sloppy, it did seem as though there was intent. Was there once debris trapping it? Was it someone like him, performing act to keep the timeline right, but with far more ruthlessness? He would never know.

He didn’t want to.

He kicked the shoe lightly with the toe of his own, watching with some morbid fascination (that only some tiny part of him felt, compared to the overwhelming disgust) as another teaspoon – roughly – of blood dribbled from the shoe. At the right angle, it almost looked as though the shoe itself was bleeding. It wasn’t. He knew that. He knew he shouldn’t entertain this, whatever this was. He knew he needed to be efficient, fast.

He wiped a tear absentmindedly, and turned away.

***

It was December. It had been three years since then. He always tried to keep track of time, even if he knew it was irrelevant and useless information to have. He had been given an assignment in the same place, only a few years prior. Some ‘world war three happening too early’ bullshit. He never questioned assignments, it was one of the reasons he was so well liked (or at least respected, no one is ever really ‘liked’).

It was dark out. He was outside a window, trying not to let the bright light hit his face. Inside a young girl was handed a shoe-box by and elderly man with a gold wedding band that had clearly not been removed in a while snuggly sitting on his finger. The shoes were white. He knew they wouldn’t be for long. He ignored the shouts of joy from inside and shivered. It was snowing.


End file.
